


Paint Me Like One of Your French Revolutionaries

by TheObsessedAuthor



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Multiple Endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 19:46:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheObsessedAuthor/pseuds/TheObsessedAuthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras offers to model for Grantaire.</p><p>Multiple endings, as a sort of choose-your-mood thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, multiple endings.   
> Chapter 1- main story  
> Chapter 2- sad ending  
> Chapter 3- fluffy ending  
> Chapter 4- short, suggestive, weird ending

"I assume you'd rather I  _not_ practice nudes today?"

  
"You aren't helping, Grantaire."

  
The artist grinned and continued setting up his easel and canvas. Enjolras scowled at his enthusiasm, trying to conceal his own awkwardness. To distract himself, he fell into his old habit- blatant criticism. "How are you  _already_ covered in paint? We haven't even started yet."

  
Grantaire shrugged, the smug grin not leaving his face. "These are my art clothes. They're already ruined, so why bother wearing anything else and dirtying the material?"

  
Infuriatingly, he had a point. Enjolras settled back onto the couch and struggled to look natural. Grantaire frowned. "Is something wrong?"

  
"What?"

  
"Have you got a headache?"

  
"No. Why?"

  
"Stomachache, then?" At Enjolras' look of confusion, he explained, "It's just, you look like you've eaten something rotten." Grantaire cocked his head, considering the obviously-uncomfortable student. "Is it the position? Or is it the couch? Courf told me he'd had it cleaned, after... well, _after_."

  
Enjolras tried not to think of what Courfeyrac- with his  _stunning_ reputation- might've gotten up to on that particular couch. "No, I... i'm not used to being stared at, I suppose." He blushed, aware of the ridiculousness of the statement.

  
"Stared at? You stand on pedestals and  _yell_ at people- as a  _hobby_ \- and you can't stand being looked at?"

  
Enjolras could feel his face burning. "People pay attention to my words, not my face."

  
Grantaire laughed suddenly. "E, what do you think gets people to pay any attention to you in the first place? Not your charm or eloquence, I can tell you that."

  
Enjolras tried to  _will_ the blood away from his face. It didn't work. "How would  _you_ know? You never show up at any of the rallies."

  
"I go to every rally, O Fearless Leader. I just don't... _participate_ as actively as some of your more eager followers."

  
E winced, remembering an overzealous young student who had actually attacked a scornful official. Had Grantaire seen that? Enjolas prided himself on being a peaceful protester, but rude gestures had been made, words were exchanged... and then a fight had broken out.

  
Along with the student's nose.

  
R continued, seemingly oblivious to E's regretful ruminations. "Anyway, you can't lie like that. You look like you're going to throw up." He ran a hand through his dark curls. "How about... here, put your hand under your head and your other leg goes under your ankle... no, no, stop. You look ridiculous."

  
Enjolras, lying twisted on the couch-with-a-questionable-past, huffed out a breath. "Well, I  _feel_ ridiculous. I have no idea what you want me to do."

  
Grantaire sighed in an exaggeratedly long-suffering manner. "Here." He dropped his paintbrushes and came over next to Enjolras, pushing him back onto the couch. He lifted the student's arm and positioned it manually, then did the same with his legs, getting him into the correct pose.

  
Enjolras' heart was hammering in his chest. How could the painter not  _hear_ his heartbeat? He tried to stay calm, but his mind kept unhelpfully pointing out how R's skin was a few shades lighter than his own, how his hair looked unnaturally curly and dark in this lighting, how R's hands ran up and down his jeans as he straightened the material, how his own breathing was becoming erratic, how R's back stiffened as he heard the rhythm change...

  
Grantaire tensed, noticing Enjolras' shallow breathing. "E? You okay?" He turned from where he'd been arranging Enjolras' feet. The student refused to make eye contact with the artist.

  
Enjolras was blushing again, dammit. He smoothed his expression, but his heartbeat remained rabbitlike. Grantaire looked like he'd had a revelation. "Oh, Jesus, i'm sorry, I didn't mean to invade your bubble. Dude, you should have said something. I'm sorry."

  
Enjolras felt slightly disappointed that the artist had misread the signals. "Not a problem," he said lamely, cursing his inability to express anything besides slight contempt and dismissal. He felt a sharp blade of regret pierce his heart at the look on Grantaire's face, like a child being refused a hug from his parent.

  
"Okay... so," Grantaire said, backing away from the student splayed artistically across the severely-traumatized couch and picking up his paintbrush. "That'll have to do. Try to hold as still as you can, alright?"

  
R had barely made the first few strokes when Enjolras became aware of several things; one, that his breathing was unnaturally loud; two, that Grantaire seemed to be avoiding eye contact; and three, that his nose was going to spontaneously combust if it wasn't scratched  _immediately_.

  
He tried wriggling his nose. It didn't work, and might've actually made it worse. Enjolras scrunched up his face in a desperate attempt to erase the the sensation on his nose, then tried surreptitiously blowing air onto it. He noticed that the low swishing sound of the paintbrush had paused, and looked up to see Grantaire staring at him, one eyebrow raised, brush dripping almost comically. "You know, for someone who doesn't like to be stared at, you do a hell of a job _not_ drawing attention to yourself."

  
Enjolras snorted. "Force of habit. Continue."

  
R shook his head, but continued painting large, confident strokes across the canvas. "You don't need to act weird to be the center of attention, E."

  
Enjolras froze. Was he saying he was the center of  _his_ attention? Or just that he was a show-off?

  
Enjolras knew he was a show-off. He'd always liked being in the middle of the room, the center of the crowd, the spotlight. He made a point of wearing bright red whenever he went to rallies- a newspaper had dubbed his protests "the scarlet speeches," of which he wholeheartedly approved. He claimed it was because it brought attention to the cause- which it did- but he secretly reveled in the slight fame it brought him.

  
Did Grantaire think he was  _flashy_? R had called him out on his bullshit during meetings plenty of times, often when nobody else was blunt enough to- one of the (many) (varied) (personal) ( _selfish_ ) reasons Enjolras kept him around. He assumed if Grantaire hadn't said anything about his, ahem,flamboyancy, then it wasn't a problem.  
Or was it such an obvious problem that even _R_ didn't want to say anything?

  
Grantaire coughed, and it startled Enjolras so much he almost fell off the couch. He did, however, accidentally untangle his legs from whatever odd pretzel-like position R had wrangled him into. Grantaire looked up, saw that he had moved, and frowned. "Dammit. No, no, hold on," he sighed, setting down his paintbrush once again. "I'll fix you, I remember what you looked like before." R had one hand around his ankle before remembering ealier. He dropped the foot he was holding. "Oh, jeez. Again. Sorry. Just... put your ankle behind your other leg, and then..." he made a helpless gesture with his paint-smeared hands.

  
Enjolras was simultaneously relieved and ashamed of his ability to keep a blank face. "It's alright," he murmured, keeping his voice steady. _Bonus points._

  
R hesitated, then lifted Enjolras' ankle again and set it in the proper place. He fussed over the cuffs on his jeans for a few seconds, then worked his way up to E's face, straightening his shirt, tucking in his pockets, flipping his collar down. Then he reached to his hair.

  
Enjolras blushed tomato red. Grantaire pulled his hands back immediately. "Sorrysorrysorry, I forgot, I just, your hair-" he waved a hand at E's golden locks, "it's kind of  _everywhere_ , you know?"

  
Enjolras cleared his throat. "Um, okay."  _Brilliant, E. Such eloquence_.

  
Grantaire stared at him a moment longer, then reached up again and smoothed down his blond tresses, pulling a few strands over to frame the other side of Enjolras's face. He frowned. "Now your face is all pink. Do you want me to paint that in? Or make you your usual regal self?"

  
Enjolras froze. Was he being sarcastic? Did he actually think he was regal? Was that a compliment or a bite at the slightly tyrannical presence Enjolras ironically held over the meetings he held to combat such behavior?

  
Grantaire poked Enjolras. "I don't know what that reaction was, but whatever you're thinking, I can guarantee you're reading too far into something."

  
Enjolras coughed. "No. N-no, I'm fine."

  
"Did you just stutter?"

  
"What? No."

  
"I've never heard you stutter before. Huh."

  
"I didn't!"

 

"Wait until I tell Courf our Fearless Leader has a speech impediment."

  
"I don't!"

  
" _And_ doesn't like to be stared at. You are a head case, aren't you?"

  
"Stop it!" Enjolras, determined to regain control over the situation, underestimated the amount of belief R put in his words, and spoke accordingly. "It's not really the place of a  _drunkard_ to criticize someone, is it?"

  
Grantaire froze, his oceanic eyes wide with shock. He seemed to shrink a few inches. "Of course not," he muttered lowly.

  
Enjolras, realizing he'd overstepped, hurried to fix what he'd done. "R, I didn't mean that, you know I didn't, you're not-"

  
"But I am, aren't I?" Grantaire's bottomless eyes swallowed Enjolras. "You're not the type to sugarcoat things. At least now I know where I stand with you." He looked down, fingering the paintbrush he still held. "An arrogant drunkard, that's me, laughing at the gods while drowning my sorrows."

  
"No, I didn't...  _please_ ," Enjolras whispered.

  
Grantaire looked up again, his face smooth. "You can go, Apollo," he stated, his voice flat. He moved to put away his paints. "I can paint someone else."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sad ending, hooray!

Enjolras stood stiffly- he hadn't been in the mangled position for more than twenty minutes, but his limbs were unused to holding still for even that long. "I'm sorry," he offered, but R just shook his head and continued gathering his supplies. Enjolras felt his heart tear- _that's what happens when you like someone_ , he supposed.

 _Never again_. He gathered his things and left the flat, R's words echoing painfully in his mind. _You can go, Apollo._

_I can paint someone else._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy ending!

"But I don't _want_ you to paint anyone else!"

  
R's eyes widened as the words flew out of Enjolras' mouth. E tried to stop talking- surely he was only making things worse- but the pent-up speech kept flowing out. "Don't you understand, I would hold still for a _century_ if it meant you would hate me that little bit less! I can't stand to see you so full of self-hatred when you don't even realize how _beautiful_ you are! I would paint you, if I could, I would write speeches dedicated to you, hell, I'd pull a Prouvaire and write a sonnet if I had to, to prove that _I am in love with you!"_

  
Grantaire hadn't moved since E had begun talking. Embarrassingly, Enjolras' voice broke on the last sentence, and he sounded about to cry- which he might've been, he really couldn't care less if he was.

  
"I... i'm sorry," Enjolras whispered. His face burned. "I'll go now."

  
Grantaire finally moved. "You think I hate you?"

  
E was confused. "Well... yes."

  
R shook his head. "I... can you hate a god? Can you despise what gives you life?"

  
They were so close, their shirts were almost touching. "You could write poetry," Enjolras breathed.

  
Grantaire didn't blink. "You _are_ poetry," he murmured, then closed the gap between them.

  
At that moment, Enjolras could've written a thousand odes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weird suggestive ending? Make of this what you will. (It actually works best as a continuation of ending #2, I think.)

Courfeyrac chose that moment to waltz in with two women and a young man, assess the situation, and waltz back out. Apparently his couch was taken.


End file.
